The New Moon with the Old (13 page)

The car slowed down so that the chauffeur could study a signpost. Looking at it, Merry felt her heart beating wildly as it dawned on her that they were only a few miles from Dome House. She had realized they were returning by a different route from that taken in the morning but hadn’t anticipated— The car drove on. Would they actually pass the house?

She found she longed to, even more than she dreaded to. Eagerly she watched for landmarks. Soon they were on the hill outside the village. Looking downwards, she could see the dome, dimly lit. As they drove down the hill she remembered with a pang that the house would be hidden by trees; the leaves were tinged by autumn now but still thick. Then she was past the gate and driving through the village, past Betty’s house, past the Swan. Not one person did she see in the street. Soon they had left behind the last lighted window.

She leaned back in her corner shaken by homesickness. If only she could talk to them all, ask their advice! If only she could be
told
what to do! Things were even more difficult now, after what she had learned.

But she cheered up once she reached Crestover. Everyone was so pleased to see her and Claude kissed her so lovingly. She would
not
let that hard-ratting woman have him. And again she promised herself she would think it all out in bed.
But again she was vanquished by her old enemy, sleep.

The next morning rehearsals were resumed with unprecedented energy. ‘I’m hoping this will be the last entertainment we give,’ Lady Crestover whispered to Merry, ‘so let’s make it a good one.’ Merry enjoyed herself, in spite of the undercurrent of worry, and planned to take a long, thoughtful walk in the afternoon when, for once, Lady Crestover, her son and her brother were all going out, having promised to attend a committee meeting of some local charity. But the twins remained at home and insisted on sacrificing their afternoon naps in order to accompany Merry. Now that they were at ease with her she found they could talk almost as much as their mother. They chattered – ‘twittered’ described it better – throughout her walk and throughout tea, after which, hoping to silence them, she picked up the local paper.

Almost instantly a headline caught her attention. Below it was the report of a case dealing with a labourer and a girl of fifteen who, though obviously a most co-operative consenter, was said not to have reached the age of consent – which was, Merry gathered, sixteen. If one could not legally consent to be seduced before that age, could one legally consent to be married? One could in the eighteenth century – there was that portrait in the Picture Gallery – but the law might have been changed. If so, her case was hopeless. It was proving hard enough to stave the wedding off for six months; eighteen months would be out of the question.

She must find out what the law was now. Surely there must be some reference book in the library? Yes, she remembered seeing a many-volumed encyclopaedia. If only she could get rid of the twins!

After a couple of well-simulated yawns, she suggested they should all have a rest before dinner, saw them safely into their rooms, and then hurried downstairs again. The
encyclopaedia was housed on shelves which were now, so to speak, in the wings of the little stage erected in the library. She got out the index, rested the heavy volume on the floor of the stage, and squatted in front of it. She would look up ‘Marriage Laws’. A moment later, she heard Binner enter the library to remove the tea tray. She was glad that, though the proscenium curtains were drawn back, one of them hid her from him. She had located Marriage Laws and was reading absorbedly when she heard other sounds in the library. From where she was squatting the drinks table by the fireplace was partially visible. As she looked up, she saw Mr Desmond Deane standing there with his back towards her. Then she heard Lady Crestover say: ‘I wish I’d time for a test before dinner. Really, I’m quite exhausted. I suppose Merry’s gone up already.’

Was Claude there too? Whether he was or not, Merry decided she must disclose herself, but first she must think of a reason for being where she was. She had it: Sheridan. She’d say she’d been about to look up the first performance of
The School for Scandal
. Her hesitation lasted only an instant, but in that instant Mr Deane began to speak, in his dry, penetrating voice.

‘My dear Donna, may I make one last appeal to you? Are you really determined to marry Claude to this girl?’

Merry froze. Then – while Mr Deane, pouring drinks, still had his back to her – she silently moved forwards on her knees until she was so close to a proscenium curtain that she could not be seen from any point beyond it. Meanwhile, Lady Crestover was answering her brother defensively.

‘I couldn’t break the match now even if I wanted to. Claude’s in love. Why can’t you stop fussing, Desmond? She’s well bred, well educated and extremely talented – and a godsend in our circumstances. Do you want us to spend the rest of our lives shut up in that mouldering dower house?
What’s wrong with the girl, anyway?’

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with her, that’s what’s so alarming. But she’s been lying to us ever since she opened her eyes after that bogus faint on the hall floor.’

‘Who says it was bogus?’

‘Don’t you know a stage fall when you see one – with the feet gracefully crossed? Did you plan it all from the beginning, Donna – when you asked her to stay?’

‘It was Claude who suggested it, and I was delighted to see him so attracted. I tell you she’s a charming girl. Who cares if she lies occasionally?’

‘She never stops lying. I wonder Claude doesn’t realize it. Of course he’s not very bright. But he’s a good man, Donna. Do you really want him tied to an adventuress?’

Merry, sick with rage and misery, struggled to her feet. She must go Out to them, stop them …

‘You grow narrow-minded in your old age, Desmond,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘I’d say she’s quite as respectable as I was, when I married his father. Anyway, what does it matter? He’s got Tom. She won’t have to be the mother of a future earl, though that wouldn’t worry me. What does, is this insistence on waiting six months. Do you think she has a divorce pending?’

Merry leaned back against the bookshelves, closing her eyes. It was too late to go to them. Besides, she felt so sick.

‘I should doubt it,’ said Mr Deane. ‘I have the strongest impression that she’s a virgin – and almost childishly innocent. It’s sometimes hard to believe she’s twenty-one.’

‘Women don’t usually say they’re older than they really are,’ said Lady Crestover, dryly.

‘What beats rne is why she’s
willing
to marry Claude – with her looks and talents.’

‘Don’t be idotic, Desmond. She’s penniless and ambitious, and she may even be in love with him.’

‘Or with his title,’ said Mr Deane. ‘I’ve often thought titles have
a sexual attraction for women. But only
before
marriage, I gather.’

‘That’s extremely astute of you, my dear. But it’s of no importance.’

‘Perhaps not when one’s seventy, Donna, merely looking back.’

‘Anyway, that side of it’s her look out. Do leave well alone. She’s happy, Claude’s happy. We shall get him away from Crestover at last and out of that woman’s clutches. I’ve given Merry a hint about that and I’m sure she’ll co-operate. She’s a dear, whatever she’s hiding from us. I thought you liked her.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever liked a girl so much,’ said Mr Deane, raising his voice slightly. ‘That’s why I dislike seeing her victimized.’

Lady Crestover laughed shortly. ‘If there’s any victimization it’s on her side. Only a couple of minutes ago you called her an adventuress.’

‘Nevertheless, I wish her well. And I hope she knows it.’

‘The whole house will know it, if you shout like that. Now we must go up and change.’

Merry, while waiting until the door closed behind them, knew why he had raised his voice. It had come to her that, as she had been able to see him at the drinks table, he must – before he turned his back – have been able to see her. She felt quite sure that he had intended her to hear the entire conversation and that his last words were a direct message, though when they met again, she could pretend she had not heard them. He had left her that freedom.

She no longer felt sick or even very much distressed; quite suddenly, she had become calm and particularly
clear-headed
. Deliberately she went on reading the entry in the encyclopaedia until she found what she sought: in England, sixteen was the earliest age at which a girl could marry. Well, that settled it. But it was settled without that.

She replaced the volume and hurried out of the library,
then went cautiously upstairs. All the bedroom doors were safely closed. As she entered the room the hall clock struck. She reckoned she had three-quarters of an hour before dinner.

She worked fast but without panic. Crestover clothes went on the bed, even those that had been given, not lent; her own were tossed into her suitcase – so carelessly packed that it was hard to get everything in, but she managed. She had put on her checked skirt and was about to struggle into the
polo-necked
sweater when she changed her mind and extracted an old grey sweater from her suitcase. She had other plans for the white sweater.

She was ready, packed and dressed, soon after the
dressing-gong
boomed. Now for her letter. She sat down at the writing-table and took a sheet of paper, sparing a moment to look with regret at the coronet on it. How right Mr Deane was about the attractiveness of titles!

The hall clock struck as she finished writing. She was still all right for time. Only five minutes’ walk across the park would bring her to the road where, on many nights as she walked past the hall windows on her way in to dinner, she had seen a lighted bus go by. She only had to get out of the house unseen. And there was her plan for the white sweater; an unnecessary risk but she was going to take it.

She scribbled the date on a piece of paper and pinned it to the sweater, then opened the door and made a dash for the Long Gallery. There, she lifted the lid of one of the chests containing clothes, delved down and put the sweater at the very bottom, hoping it would remain undisturbed for many years – for generations, perhaps, if Claude married the lady who loved poor unloved Crestover and they kept the house for Tom to inherit.

‘That’s from me to posterity,’ she thought, closing the chest.

Back to her room for her suitcase … down the marble staircase … across the cold white hall, pausing only to leave
her letter on the table. She was through the front door, down the steps and running across the park. ‘Stop running, you fool,’ she told herself. ‘They can’t send bloodhounds after you. They haven’t so much as a Pekinese.’

She reached the road. The bus, she reckoned, would be along in less than five minutes. She sat down on her suitcase and looked back at the house.

All the bedrooms occupied by the family were still lit. Then she saw Claude’s lights go out. Now he would be coming downstairs. She imagined him finding her letter, opening it, reading it. She remembered every word:

At least, she thought, it was a humble letter and did not give away that she felt resentful as well as guilty. And the resentment, directed only towards Lady Crestover’s scheming, was already abating. What right had she to resent anything? And Lady Crestover had genuinely liked her.

She sat there, staring across the park and thinking of them all. Perhaps no one would notice her letter tonight—

The front door was flung open and a man’s figure was silhouetted against the lighted hall. It must be Claude, looking for her – perhaps calling her name! Suddenly she knew she had done wrong, leaving him like this. She should have told him the truth, not written it. How cowardly just to run away! She was flooded with love, pity and the blackest guilt. But it was too late to turn back.

Now the large, lighted bus was approaching. She stood up and signalled. It stopped and she jumped on.

In the battle which raged after Merry’s flight from Dome House was discovered, Jane found herself sympathetic with both the warring factions and quite undecided which to back. Richard and Drew were determined that no pursuit should be instituted. Cook and Edith, with no less firmness and much more noise, demanded that the police should be notified. Clare, after wavering, sided with her brothers, though not very firmly. Her main reaction seemed to be envy of Merry’s courage.

For the third time Richard read the farewell letter aloud, stressing the passage which referred to the police: ‘If I read in the papers that they are after me, I won’t be answerable for the consequences.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
. I might even slip out of the country with a troupe of dancers and you know what that could mean. But if you leave me alone I will take the greatest care of myself—’

Cook broke in, loudly emotional. ‘How can she take care of herself? She’s just a little, little girl.’

‘She’s five foot seven,’ said Richard. ‘And probably has the best brains in the family.’

‘I doubt if she could get out of England,’ said Jane.

‘There’s plenty of trouble she can land in without that,’ said Edith. ‘She ought to be found this very day, before the sun sets – before she faces night in the London streets.’

Drew said: ‘All she’ll face tonight is a London theatre and a London hotel. Truly, it’s
safer
to let her have her head.’

Argument continued, Cook and Edith becoming more and more excited. Richard’s firmness turning to anger, Drew’s support of his brother remaining quiet and therefore mainly inaudible. A climax was reached when Cook announced that, if Richard would not telephone the police, she would do it herself and at once. He then seized her by the shoulders, thrust her into a chair, and said: ‘If the police or anyone else in the village learn the true facts of Merry’s disappearance from you or Edith, you will both leave this house for good. I’m deeply fond of you, deeply grateful to you. But while you live here, you will do as you are told.’

There was a moment of utter silence. Then Cook said:

‘Edith, we pack,’ and led the way out of the hall. Edith, before following her, gave Richard a look of bitter outrage.

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Richard.

‘I doubt if you’ve realized what “that” amounts to,’ said Drew. ‘The minute they’re out of this house they’ll feel free to notify the police – not to mention everyone else in the village. Our only hope was to convince them we’re right. I shall give them a few minutes and then try again. May I say you’re sorry?’

‘Certainly not. Oh, God, perhaps you’d better. If Merry finds out the police are after her …’

‘But surely it could be kept out of the papers?’ said Jane. ‘Then she wouldn’t know.’

‘She’d know if they found her, and she’d never forgive me. What’s more, she’s capable of doing something desperate, just as a reprisal. Say anything you like, Drew, if you feel you can muzzle Cook and Edith. But I don’t believe you’ll manage it.

Neither did Jane believe it; but in twenty minutes Drew returned to say all was well. He even bore an apology for Richard. ‘That is, they said they hoped you’d understand it was all due to their fears for Merry. I found the poor loves
sitting on their beds crying, and wondering how they were going to pack the accumulations of fifteen years into the two suitcases they brought with them originally. And they were afraid you wouldn’t let them take Burly – or that, if you would, their sister wouldn’t give him a permanent home. And they couldn’t work at the Swan if they didn’t live here – and so on. Still, they kept on saying nothing mattered except that Merry must be found by the police so they did need quite a bit of convincing she shouldn’t be.’

‘How did you manage it?’ asked Jane.

‘Oh, I just explained, very gently. And they finally had the nerve to say they’d have understood if we’d explained before. As if we didn’t! Anyway, they’re now loyally prepared to back our story that Merry’s staying with an aunt. Let’s have breakfast. Cook’s making fresh tea.’

Later in the morning, Drew went to get the support of Merry’s friend, Betty.

‘Just explain, very gently,’ said Richard, smiling at his brother.

Drew brought back the news that Betty’s conscience had given only a feeble flutter and been satisfied by a simple formula. She would say to people: ‘Drew tells me Merry has gone to stay with an aunt,’ thus leaving the lie on Drew’s conscience, not on hers. Asked by him if she knew how Merry would set about getting a job, she’d replied: ‘I suppose she’ll go to theatres and ask for one.’

‘I shouldn’t think that would work,’ said Jane. ‘Though there is something invincible about Merry.’

‘And she knows what she wants,’ said Clare. ‘That’s half the battle. How I wish I could run away and get a job!’

‘No need to run away, dear,’ said Drew. ‘We’ll give you our blessing.’

‘I shall start hunting this afternoon – in grim earnest.’

Jane offered to drive her to the nearest Labour Exchange but it turned out that Clare’s hunting was merely to be
through newspapers. After lunch, she spread various Situations Vacant pages on the hall floor and proceeded to crawl over them on her hands and knees. Jane was invited to sit near by and give advice. Drew shortly joined the crawl. Richard, for the first time since his father’s flight, went to his music room.

‘Really, it’s humiliating,’ said Drew. ‘Hundreds of firms simply shouting their need of employees in large, expensive advertisements; offering huge salaries, brilliant prospects, positively coaxing one to work for them – and not one job one could conceivably do. Metallurgists, mathematical physicists, organic chemists, estimators – well, I could estimate some things; ah, no, not boilers. Intermediate engineers – what could that mean? Jig and tool draughtsmen. Oh, if only one had been trained to jig and tool!’

‘And thousands of shorthand typists needed,’ said Clare. ‘Jane, how long does it take to train as a shorthand typist?’

‘It took me a year.’

‘Then I’d have to allow at least three. And the training would cost so much.’

‘Can’t you think of some job you’d actually enjoy? Do try, both of you.’

Clare sat back on her heels and considered. At last, looking pleased at her sudden initiative, she said: ‘I wouldn’t mind travelling abroad with someone – provided I was well looked after.’

‘You’d have to do the looking after,’ said Jane. ‘That’s what you’d be paid for.’

Drew said he could fancy running the Correspondence Corner of a woman’s magazine. ‘You know – advice to the lovelorn. I wrote for advice myself once – Merry dared me to – and got my letter published. I began, “May a puzzled lad crave the courtesy of your column?” and signed the letter “Tuffy Roughwell”. I said I was six foot three and terribly
strong but gentle as a lamb, and why were nice girls so scared of me? Six letters were forwarded from nice girls who weren’t one bit scared. I had to write and tell them I was emigrating. Well, failing a Cupid’s Corner with me as Uncle Andrew, I can’t think what I’d like – all I really want is to work at my novel. Of course I get on very well at tea parties with village old ladies. Do you think I’d enjoy being an old lady’s companion?’

Jane laughed. ‘Not for long, you wouldn’t.’

‘Well, perhaps not for very long. But I might be willing to put in a few well-paid weeks with some kind, rich old girl who was young in the early nineteen hundreds – provided she had a good, nostalgic memory; my village old ladies are so much more interested in their presents than their pasts.’ He sighed. ‘I’m beginning to despair of ever getting the
feel
of the period for my novel. Research isn’t the same as meeting people who remember.’

‘This sounds the right job for you,’ said Clare. ‘“Elderly lady needs secretary-companion. Two maids kept. Good salary. Apply Miss Blanche Whitecliff, White Turrets, Whitesea.” What a name and address!’

‘Fascinating,’ said Drew. ‘I pine to see those turrets.’

‘I have seen them,’ said Jane. ‘That’s a job I investigated five or six weeks ago. Seriously, I wonder if Clare—’

Clare interrupted. ‘It says
secretary
-companion.’

‘She didn’t need shorthand, and you might even manage without typing. She talks about writing a memoir of her parents, but I doubt if it’ll get any further than talking about it. Her father was a composer named Albion Whitecliff who set her mother’s verses to music. I had to confess I’d never heard of either of them. She was so nice, Clare, and rather beautiful. And the house was just right for your novel, Drew – lots of fancy white-painted balconies, and I’ve never seen such a perfectly preserved Edwardian interior; silver vases
and a satin-striped wallpaper with a frieze of roses and blue ribbons.’

‘Sheer bliss,’ said Drew. ‘Why didn’t you take the job?’

‘Well, the word “companion” always alarms me, and the maid who opened the door looked a bit of a menace – very old and rather like a little black fly, but a lovely lace cap and apron. However, I did say I’d think it over, because I liked Miss Whitecliff so, and I could see she was lonely. But then I went to see your father.’

‘Do try for it, Clare,’ said Drew. ‘I could come and see you and get all the atmosphere I want. None of my old ladies have preserved the surroundings of their youth; they’re all for Georgian antiques and modern American kitchens. Besides, a seaside town would make a splendid setting for my novel.’

‘And Whitesea’s almost as Edwardian as Miss Whitecliff,’ said Jane.

But Clare said she couldn’t be shut up with an old lady.

‘I might dress up as a female and try for the job myself,’ said Drew. ‘But my gruff voice would give me away.’

‘Not only that,’ said Jane, smiling. She found Drew, in spite of his gentleness, cosiness and occasional pretence of feminine interests, essentially masculine, but not yet maturely masculine. He was still only a boy, even when his manner was dryly sophisticated. As for his voice, ‘gruff’ certainly didn’t describe it well; ‘veiled’ was the most suitable word she could think of.

Soon he gave up job-hunting and went to his room. Clare, looking after him, said: ‘If only he’d known this catastrophe was coming, he could have equipped himself for it. Grand always said he had an all-round intelligence – not dead-set on just one thing. Now, poor love, he’ll never get his year abroad, the way Richard did.’

‘Richard went abroad?’

‘When he was twenty-one, to study music. He said a year wasn’t nearly long enough, but he was glad to get back. And we were glad to have him. It’s the only time the four of us have ever been separated.’

Jane asked if the boys had not been away to school and was surprised to hear they had attended a day school in a nearby town. Excellent, according to Clare, but one would have expected Rupert Carrington’s sons to go to a public school. Well, one was probably a snob, but quite unrepentant. As if answering her thoughts, Clare said: ‘Grand didn’t approve of public schools. And anyway she wanted us all at home. When I think of … well, what sheltered lives we’ve led I’m even more amazed at Merry’s bravery. I wonder where she is.’

‘And where your father is.’

‘Oh, dear, it’s raining again. I do feel depressed.’

So did Jane; and when Richard shortly returned from his music room he was equally gloomy. Asked by her if he had been working he said: ‘Merely shutting up shop. At the moment, I can’t imagine ever working again. But one must, at least, down tools in an orderly manner.’

‘Surely you need your work more than ever now – to keep your mind off things?’

He said he must keep his mind on things, much as he’d prefer not to. ‘And when I work, I forget everything else.’

Jane suddenly decided that she, anyway, must work. She would accept Miss Willy’s offer of a job. Apart from the fact that she could then help the family financially, she would need distraction from the changed atmosphere at Dome House. Richard had already given his grateful approval, if she really felt she could stand working for Miss Willy. Well, stand it she must; perhaps she’d look on it as a penance for having failed to get a scholarship for Merry.

She went upstairs and wrote her acceptance. Coming out onto the gallery with her letter, she met Drew, also coming from his room with a letter. He said he would take hers with his, to catch the afternoon post.